On Purim, Judaism does something daring.

It turns the synagogue into a theater.

We boo villains. We cheer heroes. We dress in costume. We feast. We drink. We deliver food baskets like props in a communal drama. The reading of the Megillah is less a lecture than a live performance.

And that is not a concession to frivolity.

It is a teaching strategy.

In Guide for the Perplexed (III:45), Maimonides offers a bracing explanation for the elaborate vestments of the High Priest. The Torah describes garments of gold and blue, breastplates studded with stones, intricate fabrics woven with precision. Why the spectacle?

Because, he writes, “the multitude does not estimate man by his true form but by the perfection of his bodily limbs and the beauty of his garments.”

If human beings were purely rational, spiritually mature, and immune to superficial impressions, none of it would be necessary. The priest could enter in simple robes. Holiness would speak for itself.

But we are not that kind of creature.

The garments are stagecraft. They exist because we respond to sight, texture, and beauty. We assign kavod (honor) and tiferet (glory) to what looks dignified. We need something to see before we can learn what to revere.

And here is the crucial move: the stagecraft is not the truth. It is the teaching moment.

Purim: The Theater of Memory

The Book of Esther reads like a court drama set in the palace of King Ahasuerus. Banquets, royal decrees, beauty pageants, political manipulation. God’s name is absent. Identity is concealed. Power is theatrical.

It is a story about surfaces — until the surface gives way to revelation.

Purim embraces that theatricality instead of apologizing for it. We reenact the story. We dress as Esther and Mordechai. We turn noise into ritual. We transform memory into embodied experience.

Because the performance is the pedagogy.

Without reenactment, the story risks becoming abstraction. Without costumes and joy and repetition, the memory of vulnerability and survival could fade into footnotes. Purim ensures that Jewish history is not merely recalled — it is relived.

The spectacle arrests our attention.

Then, if we are wise, we teach.

The Teaching Moment Inside the Costume

Maimonides’ insight is unsentimental. The garments exist because people are drawn to external beauty. That is a limitation.

But Judaism does not merely accommodate that limitation. It harnesses it.

If we are moved by what we see, then let what we see move us toward truth.

When a child dresses as Queen Esther, that is not yet courage. It is an opportunity to speak about courage. When we distribute mishloach manot, that is not yet social responsibility. It is a structured moment to teach about solidarity and generosity. When we give gifts to the poor, it is not seasonal charity. It is a reenactment of communal obligation.

The stagecraft gathers us.

The teacher must interpret it.

This is the risk and the responsibility. Ritual without interpretation can become empty pageantry. Celebration without moral framing can devolve into excess. The costumes can obscure rather than reveal.

But that is not a reason to abandon the stage.

It is a reason to step onto it with intention.

Embodiment and Aspiration

Judaism at its core is about humanity fulfilling its purpose: to act as guardians and extenders of Creation, as articulated in the Torah and thundered by the Prophets. Justice. Responsibility. Covenant. Stewardship.

The concept is simple.

Abstract ideals do not survive on their own. They must be embodied, dramatized, repeated. We are beings of gashmiut — material existence. We learn through the senses before we internalize through the intellect.

The priestly garments were not about glorifying the priest. They were about directing the people’s psychological need to assign honor toward something sacred. The visual grandeur created an opening. In that opening, reverence could be taught.

The noise and color create attention. The joy creates receptivity. The repetition creates memory. And inside that charged moment, we can speak about hidden providence, about Jewish vulnerability in exile, about the courage to reveal one’s identity, about collective responsibility.

The stagecraft is not the goal.

From Performance to Purpose

If the High Priest had worn his garments and nothing more — no teaching, no covenantal vision — the clothing would have been hollow. If Purim becomes only costumes and intoxication, it has missed its calling.

But when we consciously use the performance to transmit the truth, something profound happens.

The external form trains the internal aspiration.

Imperfect beings need visible symbols in order to reach toward invisible ideals. We begin with beauty and move toward meaning. We start with costume and arrive at character.

Purim reminds us that Jewish traditions, history and celebrations are not decorative extras attached to an otherwise cerebral faith. They are carefully constructed teaching tools. They acknowledge who we are — impressionable, embodied, drawn to spectacle — and use that reality to elevate us.

The question is not whether we will have stagecraft.

The question is whether we will use it.

On Purim, as the sanctuary fills with laughter and layered identities, we are given a gift: a captive audience, hearts open through joy and memory. That is the teaching moment.

If we seize it, the costumes become more than disguise.

They become revelation.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)